


bodies

by symposiums



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symposiums/pseuds/symposiums
Summary: the winds whispered a name long forgotten / etheria is restored but the winds still rage within spinnerella
Relationships: Netossa/Spinnerella (She-Ra)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	bodies

LOVE IS NOT ENOUGH. Light Hope’s voice echoed. LOVE CANNOT SAVE EVERYTHING.

She-Ra — _Mara_ — lowered her sword; the glowing light faded from around her.

“What do you mean?”

I MEAN: LOVE IS NOT ENOUGH.

“Of course it’s enough!” Her voice echoed into the abyss, threatening to disappear completely through the vastness. “Connections— bonds. Family. How are those not enough? We were built to feel, to be with others. We aren’t meant to be alone.”

YOUR POWERS — ARE THEY NOT YOUR STRONGEST WHEN YOU ARE ALONE? WHEN YOU CAN FOCUS ONLY ON YOURSELF?

“No— it’s not just that. They are as strong… if not more, when others are around too.”

THEN WHY DO YOU STRUGGLE, MARA?

“Because I—” her gaze fell to the sword. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want it.”

She saw her hardened expression reflected back upon her in the sword’s gleam. The Mara she had known was far behind her grasping this sword. Her expression softened upon seeing herself: feeble, weak, angry.

SEE? YOU LET YOUR EMOTIONS GET THE BEST OF YOU.

“Light Hope,” she sighed. The sword disappeared but only until she needed its strength again. It was never truly gone — weighing heavy on her back to remind her of her fate, the burden she was given. The burden she was meant to pass on to someone else. “I’m ready to stop for today.”

AS YOU WISH, MARA.

Her eyes peer open to cold dark stone humming with the song of death. _Love is not enough_ echoed within her. A breath of wind crept over her skin. _It’s not true_ — she yelled into the chasm. _It’s not true._

But what if it is?

* * *

Orange blazed through the windows, making patterns of light speckle across the floor. She felt exhaustion ring through her body. The scar on the back of her neck hummed with a deep ache; she moved her ankle in a circle, throat clenching at the hollow feeling pouring through her whole body. She was tired. Too tired to even sleep.

Word had come from Bright Moon: a celebratory feast in three days time. It was a celebration and an offering for She-Ra. Her name bubbling up on worshipers lips as they offered her trinkets, jewels, wreaths of flowers full of baby’s breath and the beautiful new life that grew by her hand; never-ending tables full of foods unseen in years, now painted in a new light of life given to Etheria, all for She-Ra — for Adora.

Spinnerella felt the heavy sludge of exhaustion coarse through her veins. She could not dredge up an ounce of excitement for such an altar. She was too tired. The worry lingering in fragments of her mind whispered to her. It reminded her of losing herself, of voices lurking inside of her, being trapped inside of her own body whispering, begging, pleading— _don’t_ , she cried. Her chest tightened.

She sunk her back into the couch and tilted her head to the side. Netossa relayed her valiant efforts of how she defeated Prime’s clones and she smiled to fight the urge of saying _“I know, darling. I was there.”_ Their Great Dane, Wisteria, bumped her nose against Spinerella’s knee. She reached to her with her free hand. Netossa’s fingers clung harder against her own. _Don’t leave me—_ the action called out like a child.

Spinnerella squeezed back. She was there, she always would be.

“Spinny?” Netossa’s voice quieted. “Are you alright?”

Her stomach sunk at the change of tone; it held a reminder of days that felt like ages ago when she was strong for a tearful Netossa grasping at her hands, tears dripping off her cheeks in an apology for not deploying a net fast enough— every forgiveness a whisper in each action between them after that. Now it came with reminders of the war. Now it came with reminders of a scar on the back of her neck and an even deeper ache in her ankle that refused to go away. The guilt washed over her: the things she said, the people she hurt were stark shadows underneath a spotlight now.

“I’m fine, darling,” she stroked the soft ear of Wysteria, focusing on the feel of velvet tracing her fingertips. “I’m happy to be home for good.”

She dared not look at Netossa’s face. It hurt too much to imagine: the deep set frown, the sadness in her gaze reflecting her own. It hurt to dismiss it but she wanted to rest. She wanted to revel in a new life that didn’t involve destruction or fire or a grasp for hope that maybe — _maybe_ — there would be a fabled hero of golden ilk that would help them. She-Ra would not remain a quiet prayer in the back of her head but an open offering as she revelled in her new life.

She wanted time on her own to think about it.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she sighed and turned to smile at her. Netossa’s other hand gripped hers.

“Do you need me to come with you? I can stay if you need me to.”

 _“If you need me to”_ echoed in her mind. It wasn’t if she needed but Netossa felt like she _had_ to.

“Darling…” Netossa’s cool hands soothed her warm palms leaving her to envision an oasis of blue, endless against a clear sky. “I’ll be okay.” She kissed one knuckle, softly and slowly moving onto the rest. “It’s just a shower. I’ll be here.”

 _I’ll always be here_ , she didn’t say, knowing that the words were entwined on the etches of her kiss. 

“Alright,” Netossa’s voice wavered thick. She closed her eyes in focus. Spinnerella could see her pulling herself back — cooly taking a step back to figure out where the figures in this battle stood. She smiled back. “Alright”

* * *

The floral scent of the bathroom enveloped her. It swept across her skin in a whisper of remembrance. She recalled nights of warmth where Netossa’s hand pressed against the curve of her hip as she planted kisses along her jawline after a night of games; nights where they spent hours getting ready as they enveloped each other unable to focus on getting out of the house in the first place. It reminded her of Princess Prom: how she leaned against the doorframe as she listened to Netossa recall their first prom, laughing in embarrassment when she realized how long she had gone on and the blush the rose to her cheeks when she caught Spinnerella smiling, knowing, getting lost in her own memories. She remembered how Netossa turned away from her to hide her embarrassment, focused on putting an earring in.

Her heart ached for that. When had it ever been normal? It had always been war, defeat. It had always been _them_ , clinging to the ever changing world in an attempt to make something of it in the starless nights.

As the shower spray ran, she touched the back of her neck with two fingers. She grazed the raised skin tentatively, finding herself slipping away into that dark realm where her power held nothing but destruction — how _small_ she felt in the catalyst of the storm; the child unable to control her powers at the whim of her own emotions.

Would Netossa ever be able to look at that scar without guilt? Without feeling like a part of her failed? Her eyes traveled down to the pale curve of her ankle. She felt a cataclysm of shame swallow her for Netossa’s own guilt. If she had been stronger then—

She stepped into the shower; goosebumps lined her skin as the cool water hit her back. She tipped her head back with a sigh as relief spread across her scalp. The chill against her body grounded her. The stains of fighting, stains of worry dripped off of her skin, making her believe that it was all over leaving years of tension to slowly undo itself as nails scrape against her scalp. A ritual of renewal, started with Netossa’s kiss that put an end to something old and the beginning of something new.

Outside the door she could hear the sounds of a dogs nails against the wooden floor and Netossa’s muffled voice in the distance calling for Lunara, one of their orphaned mutts. She sighed and smiled, feeling tears prick at the sides of her eyes. Netossa wouldn’t think she was weak. She never did. She could remember the awe on a young Netossa’s face when she had finally learned how to control her emotions and thus, her powers. She thought of the curve of smooth cheeks brushed by moonlight, eyes shining wide as she went reaching for her wrists, pulling her closer. Spinerella caressed both sides of her face, her hands full of a power that could send her away in an instant.

“Spinny—” she breathed. “You’re so— _powerful_.”

Her ankle felt weak beneath her. The ache was like a cyclone closing in and she was unable to run from it, left to watch the horror above her as she stood in the center. She turned to splash water on her face, leaving the notion of tears to wash away down her collarbone to let it swirl away in the abyss of the drain.

She felt a visceral anger well up within her. Spinerella got to her knees, letting the spray hit her back. Her hair slipped past her shoulders, water dripping downward off the strands. Her fingers curled into fists that she pressed against her thighs, knuckles white. She recalled Perfuma’s knitted eyebrows and the breath of distance that lay between her and Spinerella— afraid of her, afraid of _herself_ . She thought of Adora’s questioning gaze, recalling the whispers of a name long forgotten and tainted by a history of emotions. The look of her own wife hovering over her, clasping her hand despite the sweat across her palms, worry etched into every feature. A terrifying storm of fury — of _power_ — unleashed for all of them to witness and it hurt Netossa in the process — forced her to hurt her, to separate from the overwhelming power of her magic faced, leaving her wife to be faced with the knives of her own destruction.

She swallowed, clinging to the easy-going breeze; a noise keened in the back of her throat, trying to escape. Her fingers tangled into her scalp as she pulled at the mass and then massaged her scalp. One of the dogs barked in the distance of what sounded like the sun room. She envisioned Netossa pacing, trying to enjoy the beauty of the setting sun, of everlasting ivy that spilled forth from the pots, of the slight wind that seemed to always pass through the room, but failing. If it were any other time, she could envision her wrassling with one of the dogs or working in the garden, but she knew that Netossa was now tethered to the house: stepping out would mean betrayal.

Gathering herself, she lathered her scalp, digging deep into her hair to scrub away the grime— the _shame_. She sighed, her voice catching in her throat. The aroma of rose filtered through the room; she wanted her bed, she wanted to be surrounded by plush, silk against her skin, to feel her wife pressed against her side, in her arms, her lips against her neck, her jaw, collarbone, dipping downward to meet her breasts—

* * *

“Do you remember what I said?” Netossa asked with her ear pressed against her chest listening to the steady strum of her heartbeat, fingers awkwardly entwined together. To Spinnerella, it looked uncomfortable but there was no space in the bed and the stringent look upon her face implied that she was hiding her discomfort — a whisper of how much more Spinnerella mattered in this moment.

“There were a lot of things you said,” Spinnerella murmured with a coy smile.

“Spinny,” her eyes gleamed with tears as she rested her chin on her chest. Spinnerella’s eyebrows knit together. “About— about how you’re my weakness.”

“Oh, darling…” her hand pressed against Netossa’s cheek. “Of course.”

“I can’t lose you—” the tears slipped down her cheeks. Spinnerella was reminded of youth, of tears the Netossa always bit back unless it was just the two of them, of hands wringing and furling, frustration hissing through her nets when asked what she could ever do; there were princesses much stronger than her, always. Spinnerella cursed herself for being so physically weak, for being pushed to her limit as a puppet. Her ankle flared with a prickling heat; she swallowed, fighting back her own tears. “You’re so much stronger than me. I’d be… nothing without you.”

“That’s not…” Spinerella whispered. Her eyes felt heavy with an exhaustion she could not fight; an exhaustion deep and vast within her that swallowed her whole as she fell further and further into darkness with one last call on her lips: “That’s not true—”

She slipped into a deep sleep, recalling dreams of a woman familiar: brown hair thick, her own eyes reflecting back at her — through her — in the darkness. A thin golden line streaked the void above her, she looked up at it. Spinnerella’s gaze followed.

“Everyone thinks I’m weak—” she spoke to the sky, to Spinnerella, to anyone who would listen. Spinnerella remained in place with her arms at her side, too afraid to move. “Because I care. Because I’m angry—” her voice grew louder as it echoed against the walls of nothingness. Then, silence. Ongoing, neverending, eternal. Spinnerella felt anxiety claw at her chest, sweat perspiring on her brow.

“They always use it against me.” Spinnerella’s eyes fell to the sword in hand.

Mara, the wind around her whispered. Her mouth remained shut — too afraid to speak. She remained still. The wind went as fast as it came and there was nothing more but the groaning silence that hummed in the void around them. The woman turned away from her. 

“Maybe I am weak.”

* * *

Spinerella’s eyes peered open. “She-Ra—” she breathed in a haze. The halo of gold blurred into vision, a symbol of strength.

“Spinnerella?” a voice asked. She closed her eyes for a moment, searching for the feeling of that dream, grasping for it, begging it to hold her for just a little bit longer but found herself empty handed. She opened her eyes again.

Everything was still. Outside, night loomed like a beast. There was no void above her. The face that looked down upon her was not that of She-Ra’s, but the vulnerable gaze of Adoras’s: worried and soft. “Are you okay, Spinnerella?”

“Where’s Netossa?” she sounded feeble and was reminded of her vulnerability. She pressed the bottom of her palm against her eyelid, rubbing away the tears of sleep. The weight of Adora’s hand rested against her arm as if it had been there for some time.

Adore peered over her shoulder with a tired smile. Netossa was uncomfortably curled up; her face looked more relaxed, as if she had grappled with her own battle of an exhaustion that got the best of her. The slight furrow of her brow was still there. She longed for the glimpse of her face when she looked down at her, curled up perfectly in her arms. Adora turned to face her again, expression fallen.

“Spinnerella, you said She-Ra’s name when you woke up.”

“Mn…” Spinnerella looked up at the ceiling. “I had a dream.”

“About She-Ra?”

Spinnerella could hear the anxiety in Adora’s face, clinging to something that she had once lost. She filtered through the images of the dream again: a memory, a dream, a memory in a dream. Adora’s fingers twitched against her arm. “Sort of.”

Adora waited, biting back her impatience by tapping the tip of her boot against the ground.

“When I was a little girl. I was… my powers were really volatile. Based on my emotions—” she paused, searching for words in the haze of her mind trapped between worlds. “If I was upset, I could start windstorms. At a whim.” She felt a tinge along the back of her neck and winced. Adora slipped her hand into Spinnerella’s, the skin course and cool.

“I could make it too windy when I got excited,” she laughed, letting herself sink into the bed. “My family is— _was_ nomadic. We didn’t stay in a place for very long— especially if I got volatile.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Adora’s gaze fall. She didn’t bother to figure out what that meant. She didn’t need to.

“The Horde attacked my family and overpowered them. Thankfully, we had made allies. Bright Moon took us in, helped us. Some of us lived, but…” she shifted her ankle, feeling it strain. She groaned a bit at the pain. “In the end, it was just a handful of us. My dad, some of my people and me.”

“Oh,” Adora’s voice wandered like a ghost.

“I was… upset,” she furrowed her brows. “Angry. I didn’t know what to do. At one point, I nearly destroyed a part of the woods— I blacked out after.”

Spinnerella took a deep breath. “Bright Moon always took in refugees of the war. They did the same for me and my people but… I could tell.” She turned her head away, unwilling to face Adora. Her gaze fell to a corner of the bed. “People were afraid of me.”

She recalled the whispers, piercing gazes even from her own people; how she wished to be smaller, miniscule, how she wished to disappear like the winds, never to be seen — only felt. “I was only seven.”

“Spinnerella…”

“One day,” she closed her eyes. “I heard the winds whispering something. A name.”

“A name?” Adora asked in a whisper. Her thumb pressed into Spinnerella’s knuckle; tears nearly pricked Spinnerella’s eyes at how protective it felt. For once, she didn’t have to be stronger — _calmer_.

“Mara,” she looked at Adora, who looked at her in surprise.

“But— how’s that possible?”

Spinnerella shook her head. “I don’t know… but I heard it. After a few years, she started coming to me in dreams.”

The young woman listened intensely, looking unsettled, nervous with questions written like ink all over her face and Spinnerella knew she would not be able to answer any of them. It was all a mystery to her too — one she refused to believe was just magic.

“She was She-Ra too… wasn’t she?”

Adora’s expression grew tired. Her whole body sunk into exhaustion.

“Yes. She was.”

“I was so… _scared_ of my powers, scared to think of what it would be like if Netossa wasn’t there to ground me, but those dreams…”

Spinerella’s other hand balled into a fist, twisting the bedsheets, envisioning the cathartic ripping sound it would make from her emotions balled up — like wind trapped in a sphere.

“I felt like she understood what it means to wield that power. I’m just afraid that—”

She looked away.

“That you won’t always be able to control it… that’ll it’ll destroy you first,” Adora said, weak. Spinnerella refused to look at her but nodded. The ghost of her powers rose up in that moment, creeping through the tendons of her neck.

“Spinnerella… you have something special,” her eyes glanced downward as Spinnerella turned to face her. Her gaze flickered from Adora to Netossa’s sleeping form. “Not because she subdues you powers, but… because she _enhances_ them.” Her grip tightened. “You _are_ strong Spinnerella. You didn’t need to be chipped for that to be obvious.”

Spinnerella croaked out a laugh that got stuck in her throat; it sounded sad to her own ears.

“Mara… did what she had to do to protect us all. She didn’t choose her destiny, but even with your powers… you choose something different. Instead of running away, of being scared of it, you chose something else,” she smiled. “You chose love.”

Spinnerella closed her eyes. _Love_ , Adora’s voice echoed. _Love._ Netossa has always been at her side, even at her weakest but—

“But…” her lashes brushed against her cheeks. She could see her worlds tumbling into nothingness, becoming ghosts from a time far away. She envisioned syllables disappearing into the air one by one until it became a convoluted storm.

“But what if it isn’t enough?”

* * *

She felt renewed. The house remained still except for a few snuffs outside the bathroom door. Spinnerella pressed her face into a fluffy towel and sighed. She thought of the times they shared spa days, lounging in cool water to relieve their heated skins after working outside, she longed for the smell of powder — light against her own skin as Netossa balanced on the tops of her feet, kissing Spinerella’s neck, collarbone, shoulders as she smelled the leftover aroma of Netossa’s face mask, clean and familiar.

The remnants of blue sky peeked through the skylight as she dried herself off. Each movement lasted an eternity as she fell back into her familiar routine, reminding her of her humanity. She patted her face, her legs, every part of her until she enveloped herself in a fluffy robe that heaved against her body like a final sigh. 

It felt as if it were a dream, coming home to a space of their own after the end of the war. No hurried rush out the door, no one to seek to look over their home with the fear that one day it may be gone like their homes before them. She thought of the large space now unmarred by the threats of constant loss as she ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the twists and tangles against her scalp. She noticed the pain in her ankle subsided as she touched the scar on the back of her neck to acknowledge the pain that once wracked her body.

When she opened the door, she was surprised by the silence. It made her feel unwelcome, reminded her of the silence of her own mind willing her body to do something — _anything_ — that wasn’t watching a being struggle for her life by her own hand; the unsettling disquiet of ambience that whipped in her ears like a tempest—

She made her way to the bedroom, nudging open the door with her foot.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. There Netossa was bare shouldered, draped in silken sheets. The dusty light of the bedroom reflected in her flush.

“Uh— hey Spinny.”

“Hello darling,” she smiled with her own flush.

“I thought… you know. Since we’re home, you and I could…” she motioned between them.

“Could what?” Spinnerella’s tone turned coy.

“Well, you know… uh…” she pulled the sheets close to her. The disappearing sun had reached the other end of the house now, leaving the room aglow in powdery blue. Her eyes glanced upwards to meet Spinnerella’s. Inside them spoke a heavy sadness and Spinnerella could feel the guilt weight on her own hands. “Spinny, I want to make love to you.”

“To me?” she walked over to the bed and sat on the edge beside her. Netossa curled her legs closer, Spinnerella could feel her own craving for contact. “Why not with?”

“You’re so…” she reached out to toy with the strands of her damp hair. Tentative fingers traveled up to her neck, dark eyes gauging the reaction. Spinnerella felt a wave of fear rise up and then melt into the air all at once as Netossa’s fingertips traced the scar. Spinnerella sighed and tipped her head back. “Beautiful. I want to make you feel that beautiful. You deserve so much, Spinny.”

“But I already have so much, darling.” She turned and pressed a thumb against the smooth expanse of her wrist, feeling her pulse beat underneath it, smiling full and sweet. She pressed Netossa’s hand to her cheek. “I have a home. I have _you_.”

Netossa drew herself to her knees. The sheets pooled like a lake below her. Spinnerella’s eyes traveled past her collarbone, it drank in the swell of her breasts, her smooth stomach and at last, she paused at the apex of her thighs. She smiled again as she met her gaze.

“I want to make you feel like a queen, Spinny. I don’t…” her thumb brushed against her cheek. “I don’t want you to feel like it’s your fault.”

Spinnerella blinked as her words left her. “I don’t—” her voice spilled out in a whisper as she fought back tears. “It’s not yours either.”

“I’m so sorry!” Netossa’s eyes turned glassy with tears. “I forgot our anniversary! I didn’t realize—” she looked down, her lashes wet. “I didn’t realize Horde Prime would use my own weakness against me…”

“Darling…”

“I could figure out everyone else’s weakness… but I couldn’t admit my own. Not until what happened to you. And then I had to go and hurt you!”

“Netossa—”

“I felt so… I _feel_ so weak! So _powerless_! That’s why I don’t want you to blame yourself.”

“Netossa!” Spinerella cried; a gust of wind swirled around them to wipe away the hurt from Netossa’s face. The curtains fluttered in slow motion.

Netossa peered up at her as Spinnerella kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose and ended with a feather-light touch against her lips.

“You’re not weak for loving me,” Spinnerella pressed their cheeks together, words like the wind whispered against Netossa’s ear. “If the Rebellion had listened to you in the first place, don’t you think we would have won sooner?”

Netossa laughed though it had no spark. Her fingers dug deeper into the pliable skin of Spinnerella’s wrist.

“That’s because you’re so smart— so _brilliant_. You know how to deal with so many different things in so many different ways. If—” (her cheek was wet from Netossa’s cheeks, warm and flushed — salt sticking to their skin) “If I’m your weakness, then doesn’t that make you the strong one? You weren’t afraid of me when I couldn’t control my powers. You weren’t afraid to take me down.”

Netossa’s other hand rested on the crook of her hip. It dove deep into her ache, her want; it stung as she was reminded of the pain that was smoothed over by Horde Prime’s peace: the song of a constant loneliness that echoed within her. A loneliness she swallowed down to make the peace she was not given the space to.

“Who else could have done that?”

A sigh escaped between them, binding them together within the space of their silence. “Spinny… the minute I saw your powers, I knew you would be stronger than any princess ever could be.”

Spinnerella shied away with embarrassment at the hazy memory of one of her tantrums impressing Netossa, how she faced it head on with admiration — not fear. She had always remembered the shame rising in her chest at the lack of her control, but recalled Netossa’s animated retelling of the story in her own words recalling the most ethereal being that controlled the winds. She laughed and enveloped herself in Netossa’s arms; she felt fragile, scars and fractures written all over her body and yet, Netossa let her be these things. Netossa let her be powerful, she let her be weak. Spinnerella ached for kissing her wife on the mouth, gentle and passionate.

So, she did. Her arm curled around her wife’s waist and pulled her close. How lovely Netossa’s fingers felt against her shoulders, her back, her waist: so caring and delicate where no fear lingered. Spinnerella melted into the feeling of them. How long had it been since they had made love? Ages, her mind echoed.

Spinnerella lowered her onto the pillows, letting a finger trace her jaw before sharing an open mouth kiss with a mournful sob rising from the back of their throats only to twine against the spaces of their bodies. Fingers curled into her wet scalp, needing more contact, unable to satisfy the heat, the need, the hurt.

“Spinny,” Netossa breathed against her lips. “Please— let me take care of you.”

They stared at one another in concern. A weight of sadness wedged between them, trying to find a home.

“Of course…” She whispered. “Of course, I will.” Netossa coaxed her to lie against the pillows. They felt calming, inviting as Netossa had made them so— for her sole benefit.

“Is this to make up for missing our anniversary?” she mused.

“It’s more than that.” Netossa sat beside her with legs tucked underneath. A coarse thumb stroked idly at Spinnerella’s brow, forcing her to relax into the bedding. “I love you, Spinnerella. I’ve damaged your ankle twice now and destroyed that chip on your neck and yet— you still serve vegetable platters and Breezy always greets you first at the door. You’re so—” she felt lips press against the corner of her mouth, sensing Netossa’s fragility as she moved to her jaw, from the lobe to the top of her ear. “You love me so much.”

“Netossa…” she sighed; anxiety began to tighten in her chest again. “Because you love _me_ so much, darling. Even with… my powers.”

They shared a tearful laugh as their foreheads touched, gentle and affirming. Netossa’s touch was patient as it trailed over her collarbone, down her arm, brushing against her thigh where she mapped the familiar home of her skin as the touch sang cries of torment and resilience all in one. Spinnerella could sense that she found the remedy to her aching heart in the soft plush of her stomach, in the rose and fall of her chest as she enveloped her breast — drinking the adoration on her wife’s face.

They kissed for what felt like hours — _days_ — longing for more time with one another, endless and bright: a fleeting feeling they always grasped onto.

“Darling,” she sighed as all of the tension unraveled from Netossa’s body against her. Netossa kissed her — every part of her. Spinnerella could sense her searching for an answer that would not satisfy her. Her eyes fluttered shut, fingers curled around Netossa’s shoulder, into the bedsheets, anywhere she could grasp, something to hold onto, something to keep her grounded.

They shared — themselves, their pain, all their worry, their fear, their sadness and heartache — notalgia and depths swirled into a cacophony of force, nether held back not perfected.

“I’m sorry Spinny—” Netossa cried. “I’m so sorry—” she sobbed as Spinnerella could feel that feeling of something dark within her sink further and further down into the pit of her stomach—

—until it bloomed; it was the sound of windswept limbs of brushing together like fingers, it was the rain pelting against the window while fallen leaves were left to rot and regrow. She felt whole and then separated like the child scared of her powers, like the woman acquired by Prime to utilize it, begging please— _please._

Netossa crawled into her arms and for the first time in weeks, Spinnerella burst into tears.

* * *

“Light Hope was right. Love isn’t enough— friendship isn’t enough. It’s not enough to love

“It’s not enough—” she turned. She-Ra shone golden like the sun. She drew her arm back, crouching downward.

“But it’s a revolution. And revolution is the only way out.”

She lunged forward, hair whipping behind her like a blazing light, renewed.

“The only way to create, to to be free—

—is to destroy.”


End file.
